


Gotham City Glories

by saltslimes



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 14:57:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4881163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltslimes/pseuds/saltslimes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s always raining. That’s what Jason had liked about Gotham, way back when. Even on patrol nights. It was a dirty city full of dirty people, and he knew that from long before he ever met Bruce or Alfred. But back then, wrapped in his cape, perched on some rooftop, watching Bruce scan the city, he had always loved the rain. He imagined it washing away all the filth, and he and Bruce as big, ass-kicking raindrops, partnered with the storm, washing the garbage of Gotham away.</p><p>On a rough night, Jason reflects on regrets, the future, and life (the second time over).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gotham City Glories

It’s always raining. That’s what Jason had liked about Gotham, way back when. Even on patrol nights. It was a dirty city full of dirty people, and he knew that from long before he ever met Bruce or Alfred. But back then, wrapped in his cape, perched on some rooftop, watching Bruce scan the city, he had always loved the rain. He imagined it washing away all the filth, and he and Bruce as big, ass-kicking raindrops, partnered with the storm, washing the garbage of Gotham away.

Kids are like that. They wanna see heroes and monsters as two separate entities. They think rainwater is clean. Or maybe it wasn’t even that Jason had soured on his second shot at life. It could be he was just sick of having water trailing down his neck, damp soaking up from the puddles into his boots.

Jason tossed the last guy into the wall. The guy slumped to the ground, and then scrabbled for his lost weapon. Jason stepped on his hand until he felt bone grinding.

“And here I thought on a Saturday night you’d have something better to do than just breaking some lowlife’s hand,” a voice from above him called. An annoyingly familiar voice.

“If it isn’t the golden boy himself,” he said, stepping back from the guy’s broken fingers and swiping the gun from the rain-slicked asphalt. “You following me?” he asked. A second later golden boy appeared, dropping down from the rooftop to land among the unconscious criminals.

“Suspicious much. These were my targets before you got to them,” he said, prodding broken-hand-guy with his toe.

“Well they’re not dead, if that’s what you’re angling to find out. At least, not that I know of,” Jason said, taking off for the rooftops. Dick followed. He always does. They crossed a busy street and then disappeared into the back alleys again.

“I didn’t think that Rutherford’s goons would be any of your concern honestly,” Dick said, when Jason picked up speed. Not really to shake him off, because after years and then more years of following Batman, Dick could give chase like no one else. He was just trying to send a message with his shoulders and his walking pace. Leave me alone. The speed was tugging at his the pain in his chest though, which, with every step, was becoming more apparent. The adrenaline of the fight was wearing off fast, and now, like waking up in an unfamiliar place, Jason began the usual descent from shaky action-high to all-over pain.

When Jason said nothing, Dick continued, “I mean, last I checked, drug dealers were more your cohorts than your enemies,” Dick said. Jason didn’t even bother turning around, just snorted in his helmet.

“Check again. He sells drugs to kids, so he’s on my list.”

“Your kill list?”

“My hit list. You sound like Tim. What are you hoping for Dick?” Jason said, coming to a halt at the end of the alley and turning around. But Dick just shrugged.

“Dunno. What’s to say I don’t just miss my oldest little bro?”

“Don’t kid yourself Dick. We were never brothers,” Jason scoffed. It was basically true. Dick had been there for Tim, presumably. He’d been there for Damian, maybe more than Bruce could have if he’d been there. But Jason? Those were the early days. When he and Bruce couldn’t even be in the same room without a yelling match breaking out. He’d spoken to Jason now and then in the batcave, once or twice at the edge of some gala, he’d wander over with his hands in his pockets and crack some joke about Gotham high society. And back then, Jason had truly, fiercely wanted Dick to like him. Or rather, he wanted Dick to think that Jason was like him. Some moment by the punch bowl had been so full of elation because Dick had half-grinned at him while he poked fun at some guy’s ridiculous toupee, and Jason had grasped at the idea that he and Dick weren’t so different. They were neither of them heirs to anything, neither of them really fit to be Bruce’s son, and yet, there they both were, in suits that cost more than their parents had ever made.

But Jason had miscalculated. There was a world of difference between him and Dick. And there always would be. And no matter how alive he was, no matter how much he tried to reform, tried to salvage his place in the family, he was always going to be the dead son. And Dick would always be golden boy. Like up was up and down was down.

Dick looked like he was going to say something (probably along the lines of how family was family or Jason didn’t need to keep pushing everyone away) but then he stopped and put a hand to his ear.

“Sorry, Oracle, where?” he said. Jason shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He’d fucked up his knee in a fight with Roy and Kori a couple weeks ago, but it wasn’t bad. Well, Roy had insisted it was bad, Kori had insisted it was fine, they met in the middle and he fell asleep with ice on it. It had felt better when they split up for the weekend. But really, it only ever takes a couple hours in Gotham to start opening old wounds, let alone a couple days.

“Shit,” Dick hissed, and Jason’s attention left his mounting tally of injuries.

“What’s the deal?”

“Tim’s done something stupid,” Dick said.

“What, again?” Jason scoffed, but when Dick headed for the rooftops, suddenly he was the one following. And as they crossed the city, racing over gravel and tar roofs and leaping gaps between buildings, he tried to figure out why, exactly, he was following Dick. Sure, he didn’t want to see the replacement smeared on the sidewalk particularly more than any of the others did, but it was really, really not his problem. Dick was on it, Damian and Cass were probably around somewhere, and loathe as Jason was to admit it, Tim could generally handle himself. But something—the rush of chasing a bat (well, bird) across the rooftops—had him flying again on that adrenaline high. Gotham had two hands, to give and to take, and the city had brought Jason to his lowest, birthed the criminals and the world and the Batman, all of whom played a hand in his death. But Gotham had given him the best moments in his life, levied him up into the heavens where he was, for pure seconds of his infant robin days, untouchable.

He fucking hated it. He fucking loved it. Needling in the back of his mind was the fear that deep down, he still wanted someone to lead him. Deep down, he needed someone else calling the shots, and that was why he was so ready to follow Dick into battle. But he assured himself it was just golden boy’s charismatic nature, or maybe some fleeting concern for the kid who might have, in some other world, been his brother.

When they arrived on the scene Jason could see what Dick meant by “something stupid.” Tim was totally surrounded, and there was blood trailing from his nose all the way down his chin and neck to vanish into the red of his costume. Jason and Dick dived into the fray, Jason slamming his elbow into some goon’s head and sliding into place beside Tim.

“What made you think it was a good idea to piss off Black Mask?” he asked, firing a shot at the closest guy’s leg and watching him go down for a split second before turning his attention to the knife that came flying at his face. Well, helmet. He was really liking the helmet. A little while ago, it had been heavy as hell, because it was symbol. Now it was sort of just a really functional piece of headgear. Probably they should all have helmets, he’d been thinking. Certainly Tim shouldn’t have switched his cowl for the old domino.

“Yeah, shockingly, I didn’t plan for this. I was just gathering intel,” Tim said, teeth gritted, lashing out with his bo staff to strike an attacker and narrowly missing Jason. Like any of them would be, he was irked to need help. No one ever thanks the cavalry. A fist collided with Jason’s ribs and he let out a startled gasp. Mere seconds ago, he’d been flying high, pain forgot, his fucked up knee and aching chest lost worlds away, present but totally separate from his body, his world. Now he struggled to pull a breath in, bashed the attacker away with arms that felt like jelly. It was hard to say through the helmet, but he swore he’d heard something crack.

Stumbling back from the fight a little ways, for a second he was flagging, hunched in on himself.

“Red!” someone called, and his head snapped up to see Dick pinned to the wall. _Golden boy’s not afraid to ask for help_ , he thought. Unlike the rest of us. He actually learns his lessons. _Unlike like the rest of us_. Jason went bounding over to smash the guy’s face into the wall anyways and Dick gave him a look like he was almost gonna say something, but then there was a guy flying at them, and Jason couldn’t… he couldn’t fucking turn fast enough, because pain tugged inside him like he was gonna tear in half when he tried and he had to just lean forward and deflect a blow with his head, and then Tim, master of bad ideas, threw a smoke grenade, and by the time Jason has switched to heat vision Dick had already taken out most of the leftovers and Tim was smashing his staff into someone’s face like it’s his god given right, or he’s got about as many issues as Jason (he suspects it’s both). Jason had time and cognizance enough to fire off a few more bullets and then he decided that the fight was over enough for him to go, and headed out.

Only, the first ledge he got to his hands were shaking, and it was wide enough, so he just sort of leaned against the wall and then let himself slide down into a sitting position. He dragged off his helmet because it felt like he was suffocating inside it, and the night air on his face smelled like poison and the inside of a coffin and everything good and safe and holy at the same time. And he thought that he really should get out of Gotham again, and yet and yet, it always calls him back.

His fingers itched to be doing something, so he rummaged around in his jacket for a very crushed pack of cigarettes and pulled one out with fingers that didn’t really want to do what they were told anymore, but the lighter stubbornly refused to produce a flame, maybe because it was wet, maybe because Jason’s fingers, numb inside his gloves, kept slipping with it. He chucked it off the roof in frustration, and then swore under his breath. Now he had to buy more lighters, and unlike Dick and replacement, he wasn’t funded by inexhaustible Batman money.

Suddenly he found himself wishing for Kori and Roy, although Roy could be indifferent or difficult and Kori often had trouble understanding the ailments of mere mortals. At least they were someone. At least they were his friends. _I should probably get off this ledge,_ he thought, but even moving to try to stand sent the world spinning and had him pushing himself back again the wall.

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath. The adrenaline was draining away again, and this time everything was worse. Jason confronted the possibility of dying again, falling off a fucking ledge, in the middle of Gotham, for no reason but his own stupidity. It was so… unnecessary. So disappointing. _I don’t want this city to kill me twice,_ he thought.

“Should have expected you to leave the party when it was time to clean up,” a voice said from above him, and then golden boy was back, dropping down onto the ledge with a grace and ease that none of them, not Jason, not Tim and certainly never Damian would ever be able to imitate. Dick took a couple steps towards him and then seemed to notice Jason was fighting just to stay upright. “Shit, what happened?” Dick asked, crouching down beside him and putting a steadying hand on his chest, pushing him back against the safety of the wall. It took everything Jason had not to let out a moan of pain. Instead he just gritted his teeth and huffed.

“Nothing happened to me. Th’ normal stuff,” he said, but his words came out a little slurred. _I’m really fucking losing my faculties here_ , he thought. Dick snorted, rocked back on his heels and made this face, this kind of half-smile like he’d had enough of everything but he wasn’t really mad about it. Jason found it infuriating. Sort of. And comforting, sort of.

“The normal stuff. Isn’t it always. Should we get off this ledge?” he asked, as if it were a totally casual invitation. “Should we grab coffee? Should we check out the warehouse? Like it was no big deal, and Jason wasn’t in real danger of falling to his death. He kind of appreciated it. It wasn’t exactly like… being babied. It was more like the kind of lies they had to learn to tell each other. Like: “I’m fine.” None of them were fine. None of them were ever going to be fine. Damian was only like ten, and he’d been beyond hope since before any of them met him.

“Yeah. Good idea,” Jason said, and Dick wrapped his arms around him without really waiting for further invitation.

“Hold on, this might be bad,” he said. Jason grabbed Dick’s shoulder and heard the line fire. His vision whited out.

“Jason? Jason!” he heard, and pried his eyes open. They were on the roof. It was still night.

“I forgot my helmet,” he mumbled.

“When you said the normal stuff that was bullshit, clearly. Where does it hurt?”

“Think my ribs are broken,” Jason said dully.

“Which ones?” Dick asked. Jason did a small shrug. There was the sound of feet skidding on gravel and he looked up to see the replacement.

“What happened to him?” Red Robin asked, cocking his head curiously.

“The usual. We gotta get him out of here,” Dick said. “I’m gonna go get help.”

“Who said I asked for your help?” Jason mumbled.

“You wanna die instead?” Tim snapped. He really didn’t beat around the bush. Dick gave Tim a pained look, like he was almost afraid Jason would say yes. Instead he said nothing. It really was true. He was always going to be the dead son, no matter what. It was like they thought of him as some sort of collective hallucination, and they were just waiting for him to vanish again.

Out of some shred of pride remaining, Jason insisted they take the stairs. Halfway down the world blurred into darkness and Tim and Dick’s voices became distant, like he was underwater.

“Hood? Hey! Hey! Jason!” one of them was demanding, but he couldn’t really make out which was which and then, fuck, he was pitching forward. A hand grabbed the back of his jacket to keep him from tumbling down the stairs. And then he was gone.

 

Waking up was really easy when Jason was a kid. In the golden days, when it was him and Bruce against the world, getting up was hell, a cacophony of new bruises every morning, memories of how he screwed up on patrol flooding his mind. But waking up, just waking up, was perfect. There was always a fuzzy few moments where he was still to drowsy to think properly and in them none of the bruises from patrol were hurting yet and he had yet to remember the screw ups or embarrassing moments of the night. Instead, he’d remember where he was. Wayne manor. Home. Safe. Fresh sheets that Alfred called Jason’s.

Now, in his next life, waking up was awful. Even after a night with no nightmares, Jason always had a jarring moment where he forgot, where he just remembered dying, remembered the impact that shoved the last breath he took out of his lungs. And then it would come back to him. Being alive.

This time he woke up groggy, mouth feeling like it was stuffed with cotton balls and he didn’t know where he was. It wasn’t his apartment, which had a lingering metallic mold smell, but he knew it wasn’t the manor, because his skin was cold.

“Hey,” someone said, and it took him a little longer than maybe it should have to realize it was the demon brat. He cracked open one eye to see him, sitting in a desk chair with his knees tucked up under his chin. He was in half-civvies, a weird combo of a too-large t-shirt and one glove, his domino peeling off on one side and still in his Robin pants. His bare feet were bruised. New boots probably, Jason thought idly.

“Hnnn,” Jason said. He was going for “Hey” but his voice really checked out on him.

“Grayson has been hovering a lot,” he said, putting an extra stress on the last words to really drive the point home. Jason didn’t respond. He was looking around the cave, as much as he could without causing more pain. Even moving his head sent pain flaring down his chest. He’d been here, a handful of times, but it was… different not living there anymore. There was a strange misplaced feeling, like returning to a school he no longer attended. Once it had been home, and he’d had a knowledge of every change and development. And now he was the stranger.

“Father says you should stay,” Damian said quietly, almost offhandedly, but somewhere lingering in his voice Jason thought he detected a familiar waiver. Surely not, from the steely assassin-turned Robin, the real son, he thought. But maybe the mantle was heavy for everyone. Maybe no one could really live up to golden boy. He’d always be the first. And the rest of them would be fuckups forever. The replacement, the demon, the dead son.

“What do you think?” Jason asked. Damian used his bare feet on the edge of the bed Jason was lying on to shove himself back towards the computers, the chair rolling errantly left like it had one bad wheel.

“You dying won’t do anyone any favours,” Damian simply said, hopping off the chair and swiftly exiting Jason’s line of sight. And Jason found himself half smiling. That was probably one of the nicest things the kid had ever said to anyone.

Later, golden boy himself came down and confirmed this theory. He scolded Jason for being irresponsible as if he was talking to the kid who’d idolized him all those years ago. And it wasn’t hubris, Jason decided. It wasn’t that Dick was stuck thinking of himself as the heroic big brother. It was that he wasn’t ready to stop seeing them as worthy little Robins. And if Dick was any example, and of course, he was the example, Robins grow into better things.

So Jason figured maybe he had a chance after all.


End file.
